Helmsley stalked up to him, his bootheels ringing in the cavernous space. “You are making a mistake, Delancey. An enormous mistake. You have potential. Others have noted as much, but you are throwing it all away over some child who isn’t even related to you.”
Psyche took the place at Michael’s side and laced her fingers through this. If he’d had any doubts about the rightness of his decision, they fled at the touch of her hand.
“The Church is full of good people,” Michael said, “and those good people deserve better than the likes of Hannibal Arbuckle in the ranks of clergy. You know it, Helmsley, and that is why you will see to it that Arbuckle resigns, effectively immediately.”
“I will never!” Arbuckle roared. “How dare you, and by what authority do you make such an outlandish demand? Delancey, you are clearly daft if not dangerous. Somebody should summon the watch.”
Psyche took a firmer grip of Michael’s hand. “Somebody has, also a few judges and a rather large jury. Put your case to them, Arbuckle. Explain to them how you threw children to the poorhouse, abused your staff, and took advantage of your congregation, while your curate tended to the Church’s business and rescued what innocents he could. Let’s see what they have to say.”
Michael had not quite followed what Psyche was alluding to, but she seemed calm and even… happy?
She pointed up, to the balcony that ringed the nave and held the choir loft. Michael was astonished to see Ophelia Oldbach, swaddled to the ears, among a host of others. Goddard and various squirming children were up there, as well as some ladies in colorful plumage who were blowing MacKay kisses. Half the regulars from Meg’s tavern were present, as well as Twillinger, Ingram, and Danner. Some former soldiers of MacKay’s acquaintance were also among those assembled, as were three of the pastors who’d found babies on their church steps.
“Who are the ladies?” Michael murmured in Psyche’s ear.
“The proper ladies are Hazel’s charitable friends and some of Mrs. Oldbach’s cronies. The other ladies are acquaintances of Mr. MacKay and the former soldiers.”
“You did this?” Michael asked as a sense of peace and gratitude filled his heart. Bea and Thad were safe. If he could not see to their safety, Psyche would, as would these good, kind, generous, and fierce people.
“You did this,” Psyche said. “I merely announced the time and place of the meeting.”
Arbuckle was no longer pacing or slapping his walking stick against his palm. “Who in blazes are they?” His tone was aggrieved, though his eyes had taken on the furtive desperation of the cornered rodent.
“Helmsley,” Michael said, “Arbuckle, allow me to introduce the rest of my family and a few new friends. If you’re through attempting to bully, intimidate, and bother me and my children, I’d like to greet them properly.”
Psyche waved to Mrs. Oldbach. “Oh, and we’ll want Arbuckle’s resignation in writing.”
“By sundown,” Papa added.
MacKay pushed away from his pillar. “We’ll find pen and paper in the vicar’s study. Methinks now is a fine time to write a resignation. This way, Arbuckle.”
Arbuckle tossed one doomed glance at Helmsley, who was scowling resolutely in the direction of the altar. Working out what to say to his superiors, no doubt, and what not to say.
“Wishing yourself back in Shropshire?” Michael asked as somebody took up a robust version of “Amazing Grace.”
“Or Wales,” Helmsley said as others joined in. “My mother’s people were Welsh.”
“Perhaps you should visit them,” Psyche suggested sweetly. “A year or two in the country might do wonders for your disposition.”
The chorus from above grew louder and broke into soprano, alto, tenor, and bass parts, with Mrs. Oldbach and her friends warbling the descant.
If Helmsley had anything to say, he was drowned out by the joyful noise. He bowed to Psyche and then—how odd—to Michael and took himself off without another word.
The assemblage had reached the third verse, about many dangers, toils, and snares, though Michael could not recall a word of the lyrics. He knew only that Psyche held his hand, the children were safe, and he was happier than he’d ever thought to be.
Then Psyche kissed him, the angel chorus burst into applause, and he was happier still.
“Five days, Hazel,” Psyche said. “Five days, and not a word from Michael.” She examined the portrait that had occupied much of her past three months and found it… finished.
Complete. Michael Delancey, in splendid repose, felled by exhaustion. The composition was intriguing, with the light radiating up from the candelabrum on the floor, and the subject was compelling. What had worn such a magnificent man to such a state? Of what or whom did he dream?
Or was the arm flung up over his eyes indicative of nightmares? Even by the bright light of a new day, the painting created a mood of secrets, regrets, and hopes. A nocturne as much as a portrait.
“You should sign it,” Hazel said, standing at Psyche’s elbow. “Shreve would buy it from you.”
“But sign it how?” Psyche murmured. “As Henderson or as Mrs. Fremont?” Nothing about the confrontation at St. Mildred’s had announced Psyche’s artistic accomplishments to the world, and that was fortunate.
“Shreve walked me home from services,” Hazel said, wandering to her own portrait, which sat nearer the windows. “St. Mildred’s was packed and in very good voice.”
Something Psyche would have known had she not dodged divine services. “The weather is moderating. Attending church is no longer a battle with chilblains.”
“Will you come with me on Sunday, or will you hide away in your tower again, painting on the Lord’s day and breaking the commandments?”
“Ricardo was owed the rest of the flower girl series.” And the work had come easily.
“The final print is the best,” Hazel said, cracking open a window. “We put flowers on our altars and think nothing of it. A small touch for the greater glory of heaven. Those flowers are somebody’s bread and butter. St. Mildred’s won’t be putting their coin into Mr. Prebish’s pockets if there’s a flower girl we can buy from instead.”
“I honestly hadn’t considered…” Or maybe Psyche had considered. The final image had been of a child selling her posies across the street from a church. The edifice had gleamed with stately splendor, while the child’s cheeks were hollow and her gaze on the last of her blooms a cross between anger and determination.
“You finished the series with a single stem of gladiolus,” Hazel said, surveying the street below. Spring was apparently offering up yet another hint of coming attractions, because the breeze that wafted through the studio was mild. “Why that flower?”
“For the girl’s strength of character, which is real, as opposed to the cold, empty edifice across the street from her.”
“You filled that edifice,” Hazel said, coming away from the window. “Vicar Tom said you filled St. Mildred’s with a real congregation, and Mrs. Oldbach has become a font of ideas. She has begged me for an introduction to Shreve. She has become a tempest of Christian charity.”